CHRIS COEN

I remember when I first started comedy, I mentioned to an open miker that I wanted to get in with my old college to do a show.  That was a huge mistake, because he asked me to book him on a “college gig” every single time I saw him for the next three years until I blew a gasket.  Well, I did one this weekend, so take that, guy I haven’t seen in 18 months!

I got to the show and of course, the event list had the wrong room down.  Once I found the correct room, there was no mike, no chairs were set up (I did that myself) and there was no sign or any normal indication of what in the hell was going on.  I secretly pined for a paid show where I didn’t have to do anything, but students walked in, ruining that pipe dream.

My favorite student was a girl who mumbled, yet asked me 20 questions. Her: “aldjflkjadl;fkj alkjflaj”  Me: “What was that?”  Her: “Is this open to other people?”  Me: “No.  I’m the comedian.”  Her: “FLKJWOEJROJFLKL”  Me: “What?”  Her: “Are you funny?”  Me: “No, I suck.  You’re probably going to be really disappointed.”  This went on for five minutes until I said I had to check something and walked out to nowhere in particular just to break the question cycle up.  Miraculously, about 25 students (I almost typed kids, but that made me sad to think I am that old) showed up and it was go time…20 minutes late, of course…in a conference room…with angry looking students staring at me, wishing they got more pizza before the show.  Comedy time, future dropouts!

– Any time a story starts off with “I woke up naked”, I’m all ears.  I have heard two this week and both were fantastic.

– Any time I see someone ordering food in front of me and it takes more than 25 seconds, I approach the level of rage that causes a stroke.  It’s McDonald’s, stupid.  It’s not that hard.  Plus I see your huge arm hanging out of the window.  You’ve been here before.

– Kobe Bryant’s wife said this week that for all the road time he is gone, she can’t be with someone who doesn’t win championships.  One, I guess only married guys can win a title.  Two, you might want to worry about something other than that…I don’t know, like your husband banging hotel employees.  You are a dunce.

– I am so bad at parallel parking, I would rather park a mile away and walk than park in front of other people.  I see your judging, old lady with the Bischon Frische.  I see you.  At least I still have a driver’s license!

– Preseason football is so exciting, then so disappointing, it’s like watching Kate Upton take her clothes off and finding out she has no vagina.

– I found out one of my pals has epilepsy recently, so for her birthday I sent her a shirt that says (in shaky font), “If you have epilepsy, clap your hands.”  I may not have a pal when UPS delivers today and yes, I am dirt…but it’s still funny to me.

The best advice I ever got doing comedy was to record my set.  There is no substitute for listening (or viewing) after the fact.  I wish all comics did this.  I emceed last night and a new comic went up.  He said “like” at least 40 times during his set.  Probably more, but I lost count.  Example: “Like, my girlfriend and I like went to Cedar Point and like, it was cool, but like I wanted to like ride the Milennium Force and she was like, no way, like I’m scared.”  It was so distracting, like, I almost like forgot about the like rides and stuff.

Of course, in fairness, I tried out a new joke.  Here’s how it happens.  I wrote this premise a few weeks ago about how no matter what opinion you have, someone will agree with you and it makes you embarrassed that you hold the opinion, because they’re so stupid.  Sunday I honed it, typed it out and walked away.  Monday I hated it and rewrote it.  Tonight I changed it again.  I did the joke and recorded it.  I was pleased…until I listened and realized it was a three out of ten.  Actually, now that I think about it, maybe I should never record anything ever again.  That was depressing.  It killed!  New hour long special coming up called “Delusions of Grandeur: How my jokes secretly suck!”  Damn you, comedy.

Ah, Fantasy Football.  The last vestige of any athleticism connection I have left resides now purely in sports knowledge.  Thus, this sports related (actually a closet excuse to gamble) hobby, where men get together, pick down the line according to a magazine or ESPN’s website, pray for healthy players and lucky waiver spots, then talk shit if and when they win.  Just like they are GM’s for a Super Bowl winning team.

What the game is, for those unaware, is a draft of NFL players.  If they have good statisitics the week you start them, you get points.  If your group of random players scores more than another team’s group of random players that week, you “win” even if in real life every one of your players loses the real NFL game.  The NFL loves fantasy football, because it makes people like me go to BW3’s all day to watch Arizona vs. Seattle, a game I wouldn’t normally watch with a gun to my head.  Why?  Because I have the backup tight end for Seattle and my oppenent has the Cardinals’ kicker – I’m up by two and by God, please let the Cardinals get no field goals, or my $50 entry fee is gone.  BW3’s loves it, because I generally hate strangers and will refuse to talk to anyone, meaning I get bored, leading to me drinking and eating more to get through the crushing stagnation of watching the NFC West in a 10-6 shootout.

What kind of person does this to themselves?  Degenerate football fans with gambling problems.  In case you are wondering, I’m in five leagues this year.

During the rather enjoyable paintball experience last weekend, there was one idiot attempting to ruin it with her trashy skills – the mouthy blonde hilljack.  She was a problem from minute one, immediately complaining that her mask was fogging up and she couldn’t “get no goddurn towel” to wipe it off with.  I looked at the source of this shrill squawking – she was wearing a tank top, which other no than no shirt at all, is the worst possible article of clothing to wear paintballing.  She also apparently liked birds, because I was able to see at least three bird tattoos from the limited skin exposed.  I have a bald eagle tattoo that I rather like, but it’s kind of diminshed if I get a chicken hawk, emu, and red-crested warbler on my person.  Calm down with the birds, lady.

Well, she was just getting warmed up.  She proceeded to henpeck the referee into getting her a free popsicle (they were three for a buck…yes, three for a buck) because she “didn’t have no cash.”  She then yelled at someone for shooting her in the foot.  This would be a legit complaint…if she WASN’T ON A GODDAMN PAINTBALL COURSE TEN FEET FROM THE BOUNDARY LINE!  “Maybe you should take some shootin’ lessons!”  Maybe you shouldn’t stand ten feet from the edge of a paintball course, stupid!  Ever thought…never mind, I said thought…my bad.

She also yelled at the group because a smoke grenade got in her zone and she “couldn’t breathe or see or nothing and that ain’t good!”  No, actually, it’s great.  In fact, I’m taking out a small loan to buy enough to shut you up at the cost of my personal credit score.  Finally, she yelled at the ref to hurry up the game every single time she got out.  After all, it’s only about her.  I’m also pretty sure she’s the one that shot me in the back of the head.  I was going to turn on her and gun her down next game, but the course shut down.  If a guy acts like this, I can punch him, but I’m powerless against this harpy.  I need to enroll my girlfriend in boxing classes.  Then again, that’s a horrible idea.  Oh well, at least I have it better than bird lady’s husband.  That henpecked eunuch is probably fashioning a noose in his shed as I type this blog.  “It’s finally quiet now!  It’s finally quiet!”

Me and my lady finally played paintball Saturday thanks to a groupon/eversave/living social (She is on those like stink on shit – I think we will be discount yodeling next week) and there was much to learn.  I learned first off that by not having camo and combat boots on, I was in the minority.  This place looked like a militia training center, mixed in with ugly teenage boys taking a weird coming of age ritual.  At least I wasn’t dressed up in sweatpants and a sleeveless brown leather jacket (no shirt underneath) like this one kid.  I surmised he lived in a broken down bus.

The first game started and I realized how woefully inaccurate my gun was as the paintballs drifted off to the left, then straight, then left.  At that moment, a ball smashed into my side fat.  Well, that was a fun 20 seconds.  After walking off, I discovered it never broke, so I took myself out of the game for no reason.  This happened three times that day.  It worked out though, because some assassin ended up flanking what would’ve been my position and peppering the remnants of my team from 15 feet away.  I can still hear the screams…

It got a lot better when I figured out what was going on and proceeded to exploit sniper’s nests (aka hide like a bitch).  All was good and my team won three in row.  Then we went to “Ambush Alley” and it all fell apart.  While advancing, someone skipped one off my shoulder.  I looked to check – all good.  Then a burning hot pain overcame my neck as Lee Harvey Oswald shot me in the back of the skull.  I managed to throw my hands up and get out of the crossfire.  Alas, the warm, wetness was not paint, but the rush of blood internally and I had taken myself out for no reason.  Then I realized that it was not possible to get shot in the back of the head four minutes into the game and I was the victim of a Benedict Arnold, shooting their own teammate!  What traitor had turned their back on our cause, the cause of “no armbands” in our epic struggle against the oppression of “armbands”?  There could be only one suspect – the bleach blonde mouthy white trash lady that had sought to ruin our day from minute one…”Et tu, Brute?”  She was so loathsome, she gets her own blog tomorrow…fight on, no armbands!  Freedom is our cry!